My name is Emma Walters, and for years I lived my life walking on eggshells.
My husband, Daniel, was a respected accountant in Seattle—polished, charming, admired by everyone who met him. At home, he was someone else entirely. Cruel. Precise. Quietly violent. Over time, bruises became part of my body’s geography. When neighbors noticed, I laughed them off as clumsiness. Inside our house, silence was how I survived.
That morning in late October, Daniel was angrier than usual. I had misplaced a document he needed for a client meeting. His voice rose, sharp and cutting, filling the kitchen. I tried to explain. I didn’t even finish my sentence.
His hand came down.
The next thing I remember was the floor rushing up to meet me, a cracking sound inside my skull, and Daniel shouting my name—not in remorse, but in panic.
He carried my limp body to the car, whispering the story to himself over and over. She slipped. She slipped on the stairs.
At the emergency room, his charm returned instantly. Worried husband. Trembling hands. A perfect lie. The nurse nodded and wheeled me away.
When Dr. Martin entered the room, something shifted. He was calm, in his early fifties, with eyes that had seen too much. He opened my file and scanned it carefully.
The room went quiet.
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